


scoop you out

by putorius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Grantaire, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putorius/pseuds/putorius
Summary: “Are you punishing us for something?” they’d said. “Is this because we wouldn’t let you dye your hair?”It was not because they wouldn’t let him dye his hair. It was because his name - that strong, masculine thing - was engulfing him, flicking him in the ear every time somebody said it, grabbing at his ankles with every step. If he’d known there was such a thing as gender neutral pronouns - if he thought his parents would ever go for it - he’d have asked for that too.---otherwise known as the one where everyone tries to unravel grantaire to see whats inside - including himselfotherwise otherwise known as the one where everyone realizes they dont really know anything about grantaire, and the one where grantaire starts to know himself





	scoop you out

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i have something like five other fics i could be finishing right now but instead im doing this nonsense.  
> theres no plot. its basically just a bunch of rambling. im planning on updating it until it gains some kind of plot, though, so tell me what you think?

None of them really knew a single thing about Grantaire, not when they really thought about it. It had first come up when watching an episode of  _ Friends _ . Monica and Rachel failed to remember what Chandler did for a living.

“That’s ridiculous,” Courfeyrac had said, flinging a hand towards the screen. “I could name all your jobs. All of them!”

Combeferre, who was always up for watching Courfeyrac make a fool of himself, laughed. “Go on, then.”

Courfeyrac stood in the center of the room, pointing at each of the Amis as he went down the line.

“Eponine works in sales, Enjolras has an internship at the law office downtown, Combeferre works in the antique zone - ”

“It’s a museum,” said Combeferre.

“ _ The antique zone, _ ” stressed Courfeyrac. “Is it not full of old shit, otherwise known as antiques? It’s the antique zone. Now, Bahorel teaches, Cosette sells flowers, and Grantaire - Grantaire does something.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Something?” he asked.

“Oh my God,” said Courfeyrac. “I don’t know what you do.”

Grantaire looked amused. “So, you  _ can’t _ name all of our jobs, then?”

“Christ, I’m  _ Monica _ ,” said Courfeyrac, throwing himself into an armchair.

Grantaire laughed - a full, belly thing - and got up to retrieve more soda before anyone could question him and find out what he really did.

\---

Enjolras had discovered a scribbly, messy tattoo scrawled haphazardly up Grantaire’s forearm that read “ _ i want to believe _ ”. Jehan had informed him that this particular type of tattoo was called a  _ stick-n-poke _ , and Enjolras couldn’t begin to understand why a person would want to risk infection for a painful, semi-temporary thing like that. Though, the words puzzled him. What was Grantaire interested in believing?

“Is this why you attend the meetings?” asked Enjolras.

“What,” said Grantaire. It wasn’t a question.

“You claim to believe in nothing, but you come to the meetings every single week. You go to the optional sessions. You provide us with posters and translations, and you put in so much  _ work _ for a cause you don’t believe in. Is it because you want to believe it?” asked Enjolras.

“Okay, seriously, what are you talking about?” said Grantaire. “You can’t just start a conversation in the middle.”

“Your tattoo,” said Enjolras pointedly.

Grantaire looked down at his arm and then back up at Enjolras’s serious face. He laughed.

“Don’t mock me,” said Enjolras.

“No, I’m not, I’m sorry,” said Grantaire, mirth clearly audible in his voice. “It’s just that thing is from  _ The X-Files _ .”

“That alien movie?” asked Enjolras.

“That - Enjolras,” said Grantaire, growing serious. “Enjolras, do you mean to tell me you’ve  _ never _ seen  _ The X-Files _ ?”

“It’s not a movie, then?” said Enjolras.

“My God,” said Grantaire. “My God, who pales next to nought, if you have a flaw, this is it. I’ve unearthed all your truths.”

“I thought you said you weren’t mocking me,” said Enjolras, who was looking fairly put-out by this point.

“It’s a TV show,” said Grantaire. “Maybe the best TV show of all time.”

“I’ve never seen it,” said Enjolras.

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire. “You can’t go on like this. You  _ must  _ watch it.”

\---

They ended up on Grantaire’s couch, twenty one episodes into season one of  _ The X-Files _ . Grantaire and Enjolras had been teetering on the edge of closeness for a while, but hadn’t been able to make the leap from “casual friends” to “friends you can text at three in the morning because you thought the neighbor’s cat was a monster”. Motivated by the mild creepiness of aliens and murder, Enjolras had inched closer to Grantaire, taking cover frequently behind Grantaire’s large shocks of hair.

“ _ Fox _ ,” said Scully onscreen. Mulder laughed, a bitter, ruefull sound.

“ _ I even made my parents call me Mulder. So, Mulder, _ ” he said.

“ _ Mulder _ ,” said Scully.

Enjolras looked up at Grantaire. The angle was off, the way he was leaning on him, but he looked up anyway. Grantaire was watching the screen with shining eyes.

“Grantaire is your last name, isn’t it?” asked Enjolras quietly.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. It came out as a whisper.

“Do you have a first name?” asked Enjolras.

“Would you believe me if I said it was Fox?” asked Grantaire, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

“I’d believe you,” said Enjolras. “I believe you.”

\---

As it happened, Grantaire really had told his parents to call him Grantaire instead of his first name.

“But it’s a good name, a strong, masculine name,” they had said. “Why are you doing this? Is it because of something we did?”

“I just want to,” he’d said. 

“Are you punishing us for something?” they’d said. “Is this because we wouldn’t let you dye your hair?”

It was not because they wouldn’t let him dye his hair. It was because his name - that strong, masculine thing - was engulfing him, flicking him in the ear every time somebody said it, grabbing at his ankles with every step. If he’d known there was such a thing as gender neutral pronouns - if he thought his parents would ever go for it - he’d have asked for that too.

\---

Grantaire would count Jehan among his closest friends - in his inner three, even. He loved them. They’d become friends over their shared love for art, embracing over their criticisms of Picasso and never letting go. Jehan was the first person to introduce the idea of gender neutral pronouns to Grantaire, though they didn’t know it. Grantaire hadn’t flinched or reacted in any way to hearing Jehan offer up their pronouns and gender, but it was like they opened the floodgates. Grantaire had gone home that night to do some furious Googling and discovered a slew of genders he hadn’t known existed. Including a lack thereof.

\---

He wouldn’t ever say he was agender. The word didn’t sit right with him. If someone pressed him - really pressed him, like he couldn’t escape the question - he’d probably say he was nonbinary. In some ways, he liked having a word for the whole thing - it was an explanation, something tangible for other people to hold on to if they really needed it, and it had made him finally understand - but it wasn’t him. He knew, factually speaking, that  _ agender _ was a word that just mean a lack of gender, or genderless, but using the word felt like using a gender. It was another thing to come out as. He didn’t want a word for it - since there wasn’t anything there. There was an absence of something. It was null.

\---

Sometimes when the Amis met new people, they offered up their prefered pronouns and asked the new person what they prefered. Grantaire had always thought this was stupid.

“We need to take steps to normalize this behavior, Grantaire,” said Enjolras. “Do you believe that people have the right to be called what they want to be called? That people have the right to have their persons respected?”

“Of course,” said Grantaire. “I just think it’s stupid anyway.”

“Explain,” Enjolras demanded.

“You want to offer up your own fucking genders?” said Grantaire angrily. “That’s fine. But you can’t ask fucking  _ strangers _ to give up theirs. You can’t know what they have going on, if they’ve ever fucking  _ thought _ about it, if they’re ready to come out, if it’s safe to come out, if they even  _ want _ to come out. You can’t put people on the spot like that. You’re all about respect? Start with  _ respecting boundaries _ , you fucking idiots.”

They all made to reach out to him, but he was already standing up and out the door.

\---

“You were right,” said Enjolras. “It was presumptuous to me to assume that people would be either receptive or wrong.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire. “Uh, thanks.”

“Sure thing,” said Enjolras. “Fox.”

\---

It took Grantaire a full afternoon to get it. Enjolras had called him Fox, like Mulder. Enjolras had come up with a  _ nickname _ for him, one that was specific to a moment they shared. That was sweet, he supposed.

\---

“I need you to do me a favor,” said Courfeyrac. “How would you like to doll yourself up and go out on a blind date with me?”

Grantaire took a swig of his root beer. “I don’t think it’s a blind date if you ask me out yourself.”

Courfeyrac swatted an arm. “No, you goofball. A double-date. Jehan and I have this friend, a real nice lady we think you’d get along with. I wouldn’t ask, only we’re all going out to dinner and Jehan and I have a tendency to be fairly couple-y.”

It was true. Courfeyrac and Jehan never meant to make anyone feel like a third wheel and would go to great lengths to include those around them, but they were so profoundly in love with each other that their adoration was practically palpable. It was dangerous to go alone.

Grantaire considered this. “Does it have to be a date?” he asked. “Can’t we just hang out or something?”

“Oh my God,” said Courfeyrac. “I didn’t even ask if you like women. Do you?”

“They’re fine,” said Grantaire. “I’m not, like, looking to date, though.”

“How about this,” said Courfeyrac. “I’ll tell her I’m bringing a friend along and that he’s very, very single, but that it isn’t a date.”

Grantaire exhaled. “How  _ dolled up _ do I have to get?”

\---

The night was lackluster. Courfeyrac has Grantaire looking substantially dolled up, enough that he could go to a semi-upscale restaurant, but not such that he needed to wear a tie. Musichetta was lovely and sharp, with soft-looking brown skin and tightly coiled hair, and he could well be friends with her, but he wasn’t interested in dating her. He was pretty sure she could tell. While Courfeyrac and Jehan were busy necking in the bathroom, Musichetta leaned over towards him.

“They’re very dramatic, aren’t they?” she said. Grantaire nodded. He didn’t want to say anything because he thought he was kind of weird with new people and didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“It’s okay, you know?” she said kindly. “I’m not looking to be swept off my feet, here.”

“They’re overeager,” said Grantaire. “But, uh, I actually think I know some guys you might like. They’re together already, but like, pro-polyamory.”

Musichetta hummed. “Give me their contact information and I’ll think about it.”

“Done,” said Grantaire.

When Jehan and Courfeyrac came back and saw Musichetta and Grantaire grinning at each other, they assumed it was due to their matchmaking skills. It was not.

\---

Women were just fine, he guessed. He’d kissed a girl once behind the bleachers, since there wasn’t a lot else to do once you’re high on school grounds. It was uncomfortable, in part because his senses were so dull at the time, but it was also just bad. Maybe neither of them knew what they were doing, maybe they weren’t compatible, but he’d thought kissing was supposed to be nicer than that. He’d wanted to kiss her, too. He’d felt all fluttery looking at her before the kiss, and he remembered looking at her lips and thinking they would be soft and pleasant. Every feeling he’d had for her evaporated as soon as their lips touched. He was suddenly repulsed. He’d wanted to avoid her after that, but getting high by yourself was sadder than getting high with someone else.

When he got to college, he’d thought he might be gay, so he did the same thing with a pretty boy in his Intro JavaScript class. Same result. He thought it might be the weed, so he tried it sober, and that was even worse. He figured he probably just wasn’t into anything, which he thought was fitting. He was basically an absence of things, all things considered. This was fine.

\---

He didn’t even realize he loved Enjolras when it happened. He was struck with him the first time he met him, sure, but that was what happened when you observed Enjolras giving a speech for the first time. He was always vibrant and overwhelming when he spoke to a crowd or a group. It was practically overstimulating. That was run-of-the-mill, they’d told him. That was just how people reacted to Enjolras, so he ignored it and assumed it would wear off eventually.

It did not wear off eventually. It took him several months to realize that what he was feeling wasn’t just the effect of prolonged exposure - he was falling in love.

\---

“You like Valentine’s Day,” said Grantaire. “You, of all people, like Valentine’s Day.”

Enjolras looked ruffled. “I hesitate to accept and participate in something which is so clearly aggressively heteronormative and capitalist.”

“You like Valentine’s Day,” said Grantaire.

“The premise of the holiday is somewhat disgusting,” said Enjolras, “However, I appreciate the idea of a holiday dedicated to love.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Grantaire.

“Well,” Enjolras blushed. “I suppose that’s one name for it.”

Grantaire and Enjolras were loitering in the Musain, the last dregs of the Amis meeting. It was the night before Valentine’s Day. Courfeyrac and Jehan had left to begin the festivities early. Bossuet and Joly had begun to plan their outing with Musichetta. Grantaire and Enjolras had ended up miraculously alone.

“You can take a day off, you know,” said Grantaire. “If you want to celebrate or something.”

“With you?” asked Enjolras.

Grantaire nearly spilled his drink. He had been envisioning Enjolras going to a club, or maybe staying in and watching romantic movies. He hadn’t meant with  _ him _ .

Apparently recognizing this, Enjolras walked back. “You don’t have to. I just thought - ”

“Sure,” said Grantaire. “Uh. yeah. We can watch more  _ X-Files _ , or something.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> if you know me personally, you probably know that i relate heavily to grantaire and like to use him as my hash-out character. that is, i dont have a gender and kissing is lackluster and uncomfortable and i have very low self esteem. thats all this chapter is.  
> anyway! leave a comment! i love comments they always make me write more. if you want to hang out w/ me when im not on ao3, consider following my tumblr @putoriius !  
> next chapter: valentines day????


End file.
